


Saints and Sinners

by rotrude



Series: Saints and Sinners [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Chance Meeting, M/M, World War I, hints at PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:06:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1920, a country church, an ordinary Sunday, two veterans meet after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saints and Sinners

Pale light filters through the stained glass windows and changes colour, gets washed in bright blues and reds and yellows. The bodies of knights, saints and sinners are back-lit in its glow. They take shape, acquire depth, till they they're no longer figures on glass, but adventurers, preachers, and footpaths, living their lives in a time that, however long forgotten, can still be glimpsed.

Arthur elbows her and Morgana's attention shifts onto the vicar. He's droning on and on, repeating the same words he's said for years. They have the same rhythm, the same ring to them. They sound like nursery rhymes. “If we consider this passage in the context of the whole of the 18th chapter...” Ring-a-ring o' rosies, a pocketful of posies.

Same old, same old.

Just to please Arthur, Morgana swivels her head, so her gaze falls on Mr Pritchard. Her soles beat a tattoo against the wooden frame of the pew. She drums her fingers across her knuckles. 

“The only religious response that is at all credible to those of us who are still suffering from the shocks and upheavals of the past years is...” 

The door opens with a creak. Morgana turns to find out who the late comer is. It's no one she's ever seen before, a tall lean man with the stumbling gait of a horse and the air of a choir boy. His hair is dark, but his skin his pale, like the marble of the columns that separate the nave from the aisles. In its starkness his profile is pure and symmetrical. 

As Morgana watches, he stumbles in one of the empty pews. He stands there, head down, tapping his hat against his leg in a hectic measure. 

"Who do you think that is?" Morgana whispers to Arthur, nodding her head in the direction of the newcomer.

Arthur flicks him a glance, breathes in sharp and fast, casts his eyes down, then turns and looks again. His gaze rests on the man, encompasses him from head to foot. It lingers for a beat, two, then Arthur focuses once more on the pulpit. "We should listen to what Mr Pritchard has to say."

"Before you go I would like to remind you of our money collection campaign," Mr Pritchard says, patting the alms box. "It's not only a gesture to remember our dear fallen, the boys who died in the war, but it's an attempt to help the living, the war-widows and the orphans, the veterans and the dispossessed. So if you have a little bit to spare--" His gaze roams the congregation. "Think of them.'

Someone from a back pew says, "Those people ought to find themselves a job and not rely on charity." 

Arthur shakes his head. But it's the latecomer who butts in. “Provided you're fit after the trenches.”

A murmur rises and heads swivel round to focus on the latecomer. Censure falls from the lips of some. The latecomer doesn't lower his head again, but meets the reproving glances head on. “Let me tell you about them--”

“Please, consider the childern,” a mother says, nodding at her little girl. “It's not a fit subject for them.”

“No.” The latecomer's mouth gets pinched. “I suppose we should only talk about edifying things in church.”

“Yes, indeed we should,” the woman says, patting her child's on the shoulder, arranging her tresses with meticulous care.

“Some people aren't fit for society,” the first person who commented says. “To speak up so in church: just proved my argument.”

The latecomer snorts.

Before the situation can escalate, Mr Pritchard says, “Well, discussion of view points is certainly good for the soul, but certain observations are best left for after the service.”

Congregation lectured, Reverend Pritchard continues with his sermon. Because of the repeated injunctions to consider his words over the week, Morgana knows he's winding to an end. 

She lets the words wash over her, so that they become mere sound, a patterned cadence of vowels and consonants, until at last Mr Pritchard says, “Well, I suppose you’ll all be glad to know that that's it from me for today.” He gathers up his sermon notes, squares the papers in one neat pile. “See you all next Sunday.”

As the church-goers gather their things in preparation for leaving, the latecomer makes a jaunt for the donation box. Whatever he's put in there doesn't clink or jingle. Morgana and Arthur follow suit. She only has a few coins with her today. It's Sunday and she only meant to head right home after church. But she definitely means to come back and donate more.

She doesn't check how much Arthur gives. She can guess.

In time the congregation files out of the church, Morgana under Arthur's arm.

The latecomer is some way ahead, pushing his hat low on the crown of his head. It's too tight and fits none too well. 

With no prior warning, Morgana disengages herself from Arthur and catches up with him, “Excuse me, please, wait. I couldn't help but notice. You're new, aren't you?”

The latecomer opens his mouth in surprise, doffs his hat, presses it against his chest. “Yes, yes, I think in a way I am, Miss...”

“Pendragon,” Morgana says, offering her hand before Arthur can rejoin her. “Morgana Pendragon.”

The latecomer's mouth slides open; his eyes flicker bright. Then he shakes himself, saying, “It's a pleasure. Merlin Emrys.”

Arthur catches up with them. “Morgana!” He shares a long look with Mr Emrys, one Morgana supposes to be apologetic. “You're pestering the gentleman.”

“Arthur, I was getting to know Mr Emrys,” Morgana says, indicating her new acquaintance. “Mr Emrys, this is my brother, Arthur.”

Arthur raises both eyebrows at her, then looks over to Mr Emrys, holds his gaze for the span of a few seconds, takes off his hat, crushes the brim of it in his fingers, then bethinks himself and shakes Mr Emrys' hand, lingeringly. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Pleasure.” Mr Emrys sidles from foot to foot, gazing at everything but either Pendragon.

“I was meaning to tell Mr Emrys how his words in church impressed me,” Morgana says, cocking her head at Arthur so as to involve him in the conversation and show him at the same time that she meant no ill. “How brave they were.”

“I think I offended a lot of people,” Mr Emrys says, “but I couldn't stop myself. People... people don't understand.”

“No.” Arthur says. “No, they don't and perhaps it's better this way.”

“So you were a soldier?” Morgana asks, realising soon after how stupid her question was. Most able men did end up serving after all.

Face tightening, Mr Emrys nods. “Yes, I was only recently demobbed.”

Morgana pats Arthur's arm. “Arthur was in the Royal Flying Corps.”

Arthur says, “I was discharged in early '19. I waited... I stayed in London for a while. But then my family obligations recalled me back here.”

“I understand,” Mr Emrys says, eyes widening with some kind of understanding, perhaps of the process of demobilisation, or the emotional impact of a return home after years spent at war.

“What about you, Mr Emrys?” Morgana asks. 

“I only volunteered to follow a friend,” says Mr Emrys, looking swiftly down. “I didn't... I don't believe in war-making.”

Morgana grazes Mr Emrys' forearm. She wants to squeeze, lend her support. Whatever Arthur may say, she can be thoughtful. “So you're a socialist!”

Mr Emrys stiffens. “I don't think I'm anything much these days.”

“Do not be afraid,” Morgana hurries to say. “You haven't made the wrong impression. I am too.”

“Morgana, that's beyond the pale!” Arthur says, in chiding tones she hasn't heard since her governess last left. Aside from his tone there's a hardness to her brother's face that astounds her, that's certainly not typical. “You can't--”

“Arthur,” Morgana says, still reeling from Arthur's harshness. “I'm simply letting Mr Emrys know he has friends among us.”

“Let Mr Emrys decide that,” Arthur says, studying Mr Emrys for cues, waiting for him to set the tone.

Morgana blinks in surprise at that. It's not exactly like Arthur to be so considerate, but then again the war has changed him and he's different towards soldiers anyway. Their shared past makes Arthur more cautious around them, as if he knows anything might break them.

That caution serves him little, for Mr Emrys, eases his hat back on his head and says, “I didn't mean to reject your views, Miss Pendragon, but--” His gaze gets lost in the void and he hums softly. Morgana isn't even sure he knows he's doing it. “It's only that... Theories have lost their meaning to me, especially when compared to the loss of...” Mr Emrys heaves in a big trembling breath. “Loss of life.”

“But Russia exited the war,” Morgana says, with some heat. “The Soviet government called for a halt of hostilities on all fronts. That surely did save lives. Theories can impact reality.”

“Yes,” Mr Emrys acknowledges, “but not everything's golden in Russia either.”

“However...”

Arthur puts pressure on Morgana's shoulder. “I understand what you mean, M- Mr Emrys.”

Mr Emrys' eyes snap to Arthur's. “Yes,” he says, throat working. “I think you do.”

Arthur shifts from foot to foot, bows his head but then lifts it. He concentrates some kind of rapt attention on Mr Emrys that Morgana fails to understand, perhaps it's his honesty that's left a mark on Arthur. “So why were you attending service here? Were you just passing or are you--" Arthur breathes through his nostrils "--a new parishioner?”

“The latter,” says Mr Emrys, blushing keenly as if that's something he could be blamed for. Morgana guesses that the war made him touchy. She's seen the same kind of in the veterans she's spoken to since the end of the war, those she's met at party meetings or at veterans shelters. He adds, “I-- I live on the Bace farm.”

“Gaius' farm?” Arthur asks, his lips lifting at the sides, his eyes filling with some kind of emotion Morgana can't make out. “That's-- that's good!” He thumbs a temple absently, scratching with the nail. “I mean I remember the place with fondness. My father bought all his produce from him.”

“Yes,” Mr Emrys says, shifting from foot to foot. “Gaius's farm. He was my uncle. I... inherited it from him.”

“So we're neighbours,” Arthur says, his smile firming. 

“Yes, I suppose we are.”

“That's great,” Morgana says, butting back into the conversation. “We could then perhaps visit.”

Arthur rubs at his temple with his index. “Please, Mr Emrys, forgive my sister's enthusiasm. She most certainly didn't mean to invite herself over.”

“No.” Mr Emrys shakes his head. “There's nothing to forgive.”

“Well,” Arthur says, eyes solidly on Mr Emrys'. “I do hope we'll get to see you around.”

Mr Emrys nods, wrinkles from a hesitant grin line his cheeks. “Likewise.”

“Then I'll wish you a good day,” says Arthur, lifting his hat in salutation.

Morgana can do nothing but chime in and express the same sentiments as Arthur. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you both,” Mr Emrys says, before continuing down the road at a slightly bumbling pace.

 

The End


End file.
